WEBVTT

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This is a shovel, a double
shovel, double shovel.

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It's on a line from Martin
Luther King's "Letter

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From a Birmingham Jail."

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It's kind of-- but anyway.

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I was-- there was a man
I know who was in jail,

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I think, probably
for about six years.

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And he kept-- he was in
love with a woman, who,

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because he was in jail and
for the reason he was in jail,

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she left him and took
up with somebody else.

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And I just remember how
wounded he was for so long.

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So this was for him.

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Prayers toward home, spat
through your numb, tired,

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grizzled, and fog can't do
what long nights conjuring

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the scarlet outline
of a woman can do.

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No amens.

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Or else, pray solid
things, a plump canteen,

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pink shards of meat
bobbing in the can,

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and poisons that move slow.

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The daydreamed hand that
drags your crave, just one

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thought, that one
recollected touch

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could drop you where you stand.

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It could do long hurt to your
obsessed measuring of days.

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Everything rots at
the end of when.

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Think mayhem in the body.

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Think on the plotting
drown of the she and he.

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Letters returned spritzed with
a heat that can't be reached.

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The way back to her is long.

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And all the roads are water.

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Want for solid things.

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If you must be alone,
write her tangled name

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on a deadened inch of your face.

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It's better to be shut in than
shut down, better backhanded

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than cracked wide,
better a fool than a--

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stop your narrow cell.

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Tally years.

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Knit muscle.

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Open your thudding chest
to find that other jail,

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jail of feigned passions, slow
trample, crusher of wanderlust.

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In your cell, narrow, bleached
wrong, and scrubbed of its sun,

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you are such a broken other,
a keyless trill numbed artist

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of her mouth.

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What fool would rather be
here than in the circle

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of gone arms?

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It's been six years.

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You write and write
and write, alone

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again against the backdrop
that you've clawed alive.

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Your plea, runs long,
is choked on roses.

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She must be rattled by your
scribbled reach for her

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in letters he--

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the he who isn't you--

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reads aloud in bed with
just the brightest pity.

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Think, when was she here?

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Her eyes locked on a
space over your shoulder.

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How long do you think you can
leak all her silver and live?

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Push those thoughts
one last time

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toward without then to within,
where your brothers will

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and can deliver.

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Link arms with them and let them
teach you how to really pray.

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Else, you will lose them too,
your men of spittle and scar.

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They've known so
long what you didn't.

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For 13 years, you
were already home.

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They heard your prayers.

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